


Touch

by kaeltale



Series: Gravity: Fallen Angels [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blasphemy, Companion Piece, Demisexuality, Emotional Intimacy, Fallen!Aziraphale, Grey-Asexuality, Historical References, Intense Physical Intimacy, Kind of..., M/M, Metaphysical Intimacy, Music, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Other, Poetry, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, depending on your definition of sex YMMV, ineffable gender, ineffable sexuality, it's not quite the way humans do things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 21:10:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20032405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale
Summary: "I want," Crowley breathes deep, and presses his forehead together with Aziraphale's, "to know what you feel like under my fingers.""I'd like that," Aziraphale hums, then pulls Crowley to his feet.A companion fic toGravity; taking place after Part 2; in which Crowley is very overwhelmed, and Aziraphale is an angel... even if he's a demon.





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read [Gravity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018329), I suppose it isn't entirely necessary, but some references and very meaningful moments will be lost (and you're missing out on something I've poured a lot of my soul into). In the story, Aziraphale has Fallen for the most Wholesome Reasons Possible. If you're interested, go read it!
> 
> Thank you again to my beloved betas [Dordean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean) and [merulanoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir). I promise you two I'll take a break now. These Ineffable Sweethearts just shot me through the heart...
> 
> And this fic is the resulting pool of blood. Enjoy!

"I want," Crowley breathes deep, and presses his forehead together with Aziraphale's, "to know what you feel like under my fingers."

"I'd like that," Aziraphale hums, then pulls Crowley to his feet.

Their hands link as Aziraphale leads them up the stairs and into his modest bedroom. Crowley knows the angel won't hurt him, but he can't help the nervous knot in his stomach. He still hasn't quite recovered from his earlier revelations, and his head spins from how fast how the world is turning. Aziraphale loves him so much that he Fell to be with him. That's… that's something.

Though _Fell_ sounds wrong. Aziraphale didn't Fall—at least no farther than from the seat of his reading chair to the floor below—he floated. Gracefully. With clear intent.

When they reach the bedside, Aziraphale sits on the edge and draws him close, hands gently framing Crowley's hips. He presses a kiss to the dark shirt covering Crowley's stomach, and looks up.

"Is this alright?"

"Yeah," Crowley says, a bit dazed by the contact.

It's already feeling like too much, despite his clothing, but Crowley wants this closeness.

"If you need me to stop, or if you need to stop, you'll let me know?"

Crowley nods. Talking about it might be just as difficult as the physical parts. Aziraphale is trusting him though, and he never lies to his angel.

"I'm—I," Crowley struggles with the emotion in his words, his throat dry. "How do I… begin?"

The angel hooks his thumb on the inner edge of Crowley's jacket, and Crowley rolls his shoulders back to help peel it off. Like shedding skin. It crashes to the floor.

"Come here."

Aziraphale nudges him over to sit on the bed, which at some point seems to have grown from a single mattress to a queen, though Crowley can't remember when. The angel scoots back to rest on the headboard and holds a hand out to him.

"I want to start by returning a favor."

Crowley takes his hand, not entirely sure of his meaning. With a little guidance, Aziraphale maneuvers his head into his lap, and Crowley lets him, blinking confusion at the angel's feet.

"It felt wonderful," Aziraphale's fingers slowly nestle into Crowley's hair, just above his ear, "when you did this to me last night."

_So that’s what he means? Oh… that is nice._ Crowley shivers and closes his eyes, curling onto his side, and focuses on the feeling. Aziraphale's fingers press lightly into his scalp, smoothing out tension in places Crowley hadn't realized could feel strained.

"I felt so safe. So cherished," Aziraphale rolls his fingers on their tips, and scratches a trail to the back of Crowley's neck.

"Hhhaa—!"

_Woah! That felt good._

Crowley wiggles back further into Aziraphale's lap.

"You like that, do you?"

"Mmm. Do it again."

Aziraphale obliges, dragging his nails back and forth in circles, and Crowley melts to his touch. He could lay here like this forever, lulled by this new addiction. It's better than sleep, and somehow just as sinful.

"You hair is so soft… When I first saw you on the walls of Eden, with those gorgeous curls, I think my heart stopped," Aziraphale laments. There's something heavy in his voice, lazy and trance like.

“If your heart stopped, I’m sure it was out of fear, or something like it.” _He liked the curls, did he?_ Crowley makes a mental note.

“Well, fear was certainly a factor, you’re a demon after all,” Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley can hear the clever smile on his lips, “but demons weren’t supposed to be so lovely.”

Lovely? He's lovely? That sounds nice, too; especially when Aziraphale is the one saying it. _Only_ when Aziraphale is the one saying it. Otherwise, it would be horrible. Mortifying. He’d have to nip that in the bud in any other situation. But not here.

Crowley grabs a fistful of the fabric of Aziraphale's trousers—course and scratchy… intrusive. He sits up, letting Aziraphale's fingers slide away, and stares at him, feeling a bit helpless.

"What is it, dear? What do you need?"

"Could you… take it off?"

"How much?" Aziraphale asks, already leaning forward.

"All of it."

Crowley watches the process unfold. Aziraphale unbuttons his waistcoat methodically, and sets it aside with care, then moves on to his shirt. There's nothing flashy or precious about it; just simple undressing, as if Crowley weren't watching him with a sense of wonder. As his hands move down to the buttons of his trousers, Crowley finds himself leaning over to touch the exposed skin of his wrist.

Aziraphale pauses, taking in a quick breath. His skin is so warm, and just a little rough with hair.

_Oh!_ That's right; this is what Crowley wanted to do. He scoots closer, running both hands up either side of Aziraphale's arm. The texture changes as the hair gets thinner and the skin softer. It's like petting suede, or sun-ripened figs; warm and just a little bit squishy. From his shoulder, he moves behind the angel's neck with one hand and across the bones of his collar with the other, marveling at the dips and curves of his human-shape. Aziraphale shivers and sighs.

Crowley loves that sound. He surges forward to taste it, pushing Aziraphale back with him onto the pillows.

"Oh… my!" Aziraphale pants through the kiss, and Crowley flinches back enough to find the angel's pupils blown wide.

_He's not scared_. Crowley tells himself, his gut twisting. _You're a demon, but you don't scare him_.

"What do you see?" Crowley asks.

"You, my love."

Ok. That's alright. Aziraphale is a demon now too, isn't he? It's so easy to forget when he looks at Crowley like that.

"What else?"

Aziraphale smiles. "A beautiful soul. I could get lost in your eyes," his voice takes on an otherworldly quality; a resonance.

_Angelic!_ Crowley realizes, and it crushes something at his core. This tone is supposed to be reserved for singing praises to God, but he's focusing it on Crowley.

"Angel…"

How can Aziraphale still do that?

Crowley crashes back down on him, still shaken from the blasphemous vibrations. His hands feel more sure now; quick and adventurous. As he kisses Aziraphale, his hands travel across the plains of the angel's chest and the softness of his stomach.

There's so much to discover here. Aziraphale sighs between each kiss, sometimes taking in sharp breaths and laughing with his eyes. He holds Crowley's waist and pushes paths up his back, encouraging, and maybe exploring for his own sake. Every touch given and taken feels electric. Too much. Wondrous.

How do humans do this kind of thing without falling apart? How can they ever treat it like a casual experience?

Then Aziraphale deepens their kiss, tongue sweeping out, and Crowley jumps back, surprised by the new sensation.

"Too much?"

"Maybe," Crowley says, cautious. It was too… something. Describing it might be beyond his depth. It's something he felt once before in Rome, in possession of another person's body, and it's too soon to feel it again. "For now."

Aziraphale smiles at him. "That's perfectly fine. Thank you for telling me."

The distant memory washes clean from Crowley's thoughts, replaced with an accomplished bloom. He made Aziraphale smile by telling him that. Like he's proud of him. Maybe it’s not so hard; doing things like that.

"Should I keep going?" Aziraphale motions to his trousers, which Crowley nearly forgot existed.

"Let me."

The top button is already undone, but Crowley gets to unhook the rest. Aziraphale lifts his hips just enough to let Crowley slide the fabric off, taking his socks and everything else with it, and then the angel is laying out in front of him, vulnerable and soft and perfect.

Can Aziraphale see that too? The way he looks inside of Crowley's eyes?

"Tell me, what do you see?" Crowley hovers over him on his knees, letting the Aziraphale scan his face.

"Love. I see love."

It hurts some ugly part of himself, hearing that, but Crowley smiles, just a little. It's probably a good kind of hurting; the kind that makes a thing feel easier to hear next time, and the time after that. Aziraphale runs a hand up the fabric on his flank; reassuring. _It's ok_. It would feel so much better without the shirt between them.

Crowley bends down and kisses the center of his chest, a promise that he'll be there as soon as he can, and turns to sit at the other side of the bed. He hears Aziraphale shift behind him, then a hand presses into the small of his back.

"Do you want me to help?" Aziraphale asks as Crowley fidgets with his shirt buttons.

"I got it." Crowley snaps his fingers, impatient to feel that hand on his back, and his clothes are gone.

"Ah!" He gasps as Aziraphale's hand strokes up his exposed skin.

He always knew he was sensitive to touch, but until this moment he hadn't _known_.

Aziraphale giggles behind him.

"Now, come back here."

Happily, Crowley falls backwards and finds himself wrapped in Aziraphale's arms, surrounding him in sensations. One arm is beneath him, pulling him in by the shoulders, and the other tugs at his waist, and it's so much all at once, but Crowley _loves_ the attention. He rolls into the contact as the angel turns to face him, and finds himself hiding in the crook of his neck.

"Tell me," Crowley whispers into his skin. It's not a question this time.

"You're beautiful, my dear," Aziraphale says, his tone full of Heavenly love once again, and presses his lips to Crowley's hairline. "Breathtaking. I want to run my hands along your skin and feel you pressed against me."

He does, petting circles into Crowley's back. Crowley reaches out in return to feel the angel's side, from hip to shoulder, and then back to where his wings belong.

Nothing feels forced, letting himself be embraced like this. It's sweet, innocent—nothing at all like Caligula’s empty conquests all those years ago. Crowley knows he doesn't deserve this careful compassion, but he's been aching for it for so long; for a place, or, in truth, a particular _someone_, to feel safe enough to reach for.

"That thing you did with your voice just now," Crowley says, "that was… nice."

"A little blasphemy never hurt anyone," Aziraphale giggles, as though he should feel guilty, but doesn’t. "I've never really done that before. We were all supposed to, I think, but not everyone wanted to join in on the choirs."

"I did. I sang… before."

That hurts, too, but he wants Aziraphale to know. He wasn't always a demon.

"Ah, an artist at heart?" Aziraphale muses in that way that means he already knows the answer.

"I guess. I was an architect. I made nurseries for stars back then." _And they were beautiful; you should have seen them_.

"I have an idea!"

Aziraphale sits up and snaps his fingers, and the phonograph from downstairs miraculously appears at the foot of the bed. He grins, and the turntable starts spinning.

Crowley raises a brow at him, but rolls onto his back. There is silence for a moment as Aziraphale nestles into Crowley's side, and then a solo violin fills the room.

It starts out slow—a hopeless longing for something. Crowley feels the muscles of his chest contract with the sublime ache.

"Scheherazade," Crowley whispers. It's been a while since he's heard this one. The second movement?

"The Story of the Kalendar Prince," Aziraphale confirms. "Do you like it?"

Crowley closes his eyes and lets the feeling wash over him.

"Yeah."

"Describe it to me?"

That's a tall order. Crowley can see it in his head so clearly: colors, shapes, and smells. Scheherazade's theme threatens to rip him open, to break free, but he breathes it in and holds on.

The solo ends, and the prince's theme picks up. Now there are clarinets and oboes telling the story, speaking ancient secrets from the East. There's an adventure there.

Fuck. Crowley may love all things modern, but it's nice to be reminded how exquisite a full orchestra can be every now and then. It's suffocating in richness and depth. Clever humans! They do this far better than the Celestial Harmonies back Upstairs.

Though he's forgetting something… Aziraphale asked him a question.

"It's hard to put into words." Crowley squirms. He'd rather listen, experience it, than think about what to say.

"Might I try?"

Crowley traces finger over Aziraphale's arm around his waist.

"Mm, yeah."

"The dry sands of Baghdad blow on my face, but it's much older in my mind; Babylon." Aziraphale runs his hand up and down Crowley's side as he speaks, almost tickling, just enough to give him chills. "You remember Babylon? The fertile banks of the Tigris stretched much further then, though it was always the dunes that called me. I could sit out there, with a spit of lamb, and contemplate the magic of the land. Back in the city, it smelled like clay and sunlight…” He sighs, in that beautiful way of nostalgia

"And you were there, too," he says, nudging Crowley's arm with his nose, and inching closer to Crowley's side.

"Your eyes are soft as those of any girl,” Aziraphale recites, “young stranger, and the delicate curve of your fine features, shadowed with down, is still more seductive in profile. On my doorstep your lips sing a language unknown and charming like music out of tune… Enter! And let my wine comfort you…

“But no, you pass by and from my doorway I watch you go on your way, giving me a graceful farewell wave, and your hips gently sway in your feminine and languid gait…"

"Wasn't that in French before?" Crowley recognizes the words, but not from where.

"Indeed, I’m surprised you recognise it at all._ L'indifférent_, by Maurice Ravel. Influenced by Korsakov's Sheherazade suite."

"It’s music; of course I’ve heard it. That wasn't public until fairly recently—well, recent for you, anyway," Crowley points out, wondering how Aziraphale came across it.

"No, not for the greater public, but I have my connections here in Soho."

"I’m sure you do, angel." Aziraphale was always compassionate to the community here. The outcasts and unwanted; like Fallen things. Crowley did his part for them where he could, but he wasn't the social type, and demons have a much more limited scope in what little miracles they could get away with.

The music bursts violently, and Crowley's reminded that magic does happen in the desert; the demonic jinn that Crowley once played is at work. This is a land with a thousand stories, and he's been in some, but there's an underlying sadness to that. The desert is a lonely place for a demon, and its sands feel nothing like Aziraphale.

"Change it?"

"Of course, dear."

This time the music is slower. So very gentle. They're together in Greece. It's a festival to the Sun, but there's no commotion where they sit on the hillside. They're watching Sparta from a distance, separated from the noise.

_Let's stop and appreciate the way the sunlight filters through the summer leaves_, Crowley thinks. _Let's hold hands and say nothing_.

Crowley definitely knows this one. "Gymnopedie. Satie."

"Mhm."

"There was a time, back in Sparta, when I tried to hold your hand."

"Did you really?"

"Yeah. It was stupid of me," Crowley laughs, glass-half-full because Aziraphale is here with him now. "It's a good thing you didn't notice."

Aziraphale squeezes the blade of his hip. "Probably for the best… unfortunately."

This intimacy between them now feels like it fixes all of that. It's better than holding hands over Sparta. Crowley turns to face Aziraphale. His eyes are bright and open and not at all afraid, and Crowley wants to meet him with that same fearlessness.

He pushes his face back into Aziraphale's book-leather neck and licks a trail up to his ear.

"Oh…" Aziraphale moans, just a little, and Crowley's cheek burn at the _indulgence_ of the sound.

He finds himself panting into the angel's skin, his lungs suddenly too shallow. _How does that happen?_

He tries it again, reaching a hand over to pin Aziraphale's shoulder in place.

"_Oh!_"

The angel squirms under his hand. Crowley feels that chronic need to wrap around him, and this time he does; straddling across his thighs, his arms tucked beneath him, and nuzzling closer against his neck. Crowley could build a home right here.

Aziraphale bring his arms up to wrap around him too, forming walls and a roof—it's a home they can build together.

The angel's nose is in his hair, and Crowley can hear him breathing deep, and feel the corresponding movement in his chest. There's a hunger to the rhythm.

"Tell me…"

"You smell like bergamot tea and baklava. A delicious treat; sweet and just a little spicy."

"Only a little?" Crowley nips at him then.

Aziraphale laughs and holds him tight. "A wily old serpent who doesn't like being so easily defined."

"Better."

Crowley sits up, passing his hands over Aziraphale's chest. The hair is like down feathers, prickly at the base but fluffy after.

"This feels right," Crowley says. Something slips aside in him, overwritten by the lightness of the moment.

"Slanting and shadow-cutting, a flickering eddy trickled in gusts of gold to the shiny flagstone, where the ambre atoms in the fire, mirroring themselves, mingled their sarabande to the gymnopaedia."

"More French poetry? You really are a romantic." This one was in a magazine concerning music, so Crowley was fortunate enough to have heard it while keeping up with the times. "_Les Antiques_."

"J. P. Contamine de Latour.” Aziraphale nods. “Enough to make one feel old, isn't it?"

"Old as dirt, technically."

They both giggle at that—yes, even Crowley lets that term apply to himself—a quake connecting them from thigh-to-thigh. He trails his hands down again, mapping out each corner of Aziraphale's stomach, up to his arms, and back down his flank. The angel watches him, glowing, practically curving up to meet his touch.

The nerves in Crowley's hands tingle in response, as though he's reaching through to something beyond his body and stroking an ethereal pulse—and maybe that's exactly what he's doing. He's been in a human shape for so long, it's hard to remember what their real forms—bodies without definition or limits—felt like.

He needs more. He needs to remember.

Aziraphale grabs him then, rolling him down to the mattress and trapping him between his arms, and the music changes over.

_Clair de Lune_; Crowley recognises it from the first note.

"I thought Debussy would be too current for you," Crowley teases.

"How ever could you imagine that I'd miss out on _this_," Aziraphale mocks indignation, his eyes slipping closed as he places a kiss on Crowley's forehead.

"You missed out on Beatle Mania, I honestly wouldn't put it past you."

"Pish-tosh! I noticed the Beatle boys well enough. Running around London like circus clowns, how could you miss them?"

"I'll make you regret that some day. I'm playing Imagine when we're done with Debussy."

Aziraphale doesn't seem impressed as he looks at him. His expression holds something else completely.

"Tell me?"

"I see someone so full of passion,” Aziraphale adopts that harmonic double-voice, “that music is the only way he can say what he means."

Crowley reaches up, cups his face, and guides him down into a kiss.

Clair de Lune is perfect. It’s love and moonlight, and it’s purely Aziraphale. No burning sun, but a moon that reflects light and whispers soft things. This song is _now_.

Their lips slide together and it aches in all the right ways. Crowley hazards a slip of his tongue, wanting to test the moon’s closed lips on more sensitive nerves. He can feel and smell and taste things this way that fingers and lips alone would find impossible.

Aziraphale lets him, only lightly pressing back, but nothing forceful.

“Can you hear that?” Crowley asks as he takes a breath.

“Yes, love. I can always hear you,” Aziraphel responds with adoration, lowering himself onto his elbows so he can rest his forehead against Crowley’s.

Their noses brush.

Both his hands fly to Aziraphale’s face, angling him back down to kiss again. Cradling him there. This time he parts his mouth against the angel’s and searches deeper.

The past is forgotten somewhere in the tumbling chords of Debussy’s dreamscape, and Aziraphale is sheltering him from harm, he’s safe—not God, or Heaven or Hell can find him here.

There’s a sudden sensation in him that he’s bigger than himself—limitless—and Aziraphale is, too. The angel is everywhere, watching him from every angle with a silver light and shining blue eyes. Not watching… seeing. Crowley is breathing stardust through the room in clouds, glowing rainbow hues against the silver. Somewhere at the nexus, black edges fold out from Aziraphale’s back, because there's a dark side to the moon. A nest of feathers form around them; a space to hold their small universe inside it.

It’s bliss. It’s as though the stardust settles into the moonlight, becoming a part of it; accepted and cherished.

And Crowley feels something wet on his face, pulling him back out of the clouds, into something small and vulnerable and helpless on the bed.

He’s crying. Why the fuck is he crying? And how the fuck did he get into this new position?

Aziraphale is holding Crowley now, huddled onto the angel's chest with an arm supporting the curve of his back. His fingers brush through Crowley’s hair, and a blanket—horrible, _perfect_ tartan print—is pulled up around them.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale is saying.

But he’s wrong!

“No,” Crowley finds his human voice again. “No, angel. It’s good. Fuck… it hurts, but it’s good.”

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale frets, his fingers moving just a little too fast.

Crowley nods, the movement seeming to calm Azriaphale down to just the right pace.

“Yeah… like shedding skin.”

At Aziraphale’s lead, they sit up slowly onto the headboard. Just enough for Aziraphale to pass Crowley a miraculous glass of water. As Crowley takes the glass, he notices that he’s a quivering mess, barely able to keep it straight.

“Drink slowly,” Aziraphale commands, in that I’m-taking-charge-now-so-deal-with-it voice.

And Crowley does. It feels good. Grounding. He has a stomach again, doesn’t he?

“Better?”

“Better.”

Crowley passes back the glass and Aziraphale places it on the side table. For a moment they watch each other with open wonder, and Crowley realises that the experience must have been just as intense for the angel, but Aziraphale is so much better at tamping down his fears.

“Tell me?”

“I look in your eyes, and I see paradise,” Aziraphale hums, all human this time. “I see home.”

_Home_, Crowley thinks. He thought he’d be without that for the rest of eternity. His flat certainly didn’t count for one.

But Aziraphale made him want more.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on Twitter @kaeltale. Feel free to interact. I'm shy (sometimes?) but I will spam your timeline with Ineffable Husbands reTweets. Feedback is welcome! ❤️
> 
> The title comes from the song Touch by Daft Punk, if that's something you're interested in. The song starts out a bit harsh, but it's a real journey if you're willing to experience it. Guaranteed to make me cry every time.
> 
> I believe all the references are sourced within the material, but if I missed something, or if I need to add tags/warnings I forgot to, please feel free to point it out to me.


End file.
